Volume XI – Book IV

Travelling Home

1.	Travelling Home

Travelling home,
a state of the soul,
who knows where,
what roots have we
when like tumbleweed
we are blown 
to the four corners 
of the known world…

and back again…!?

2.   Auckland

Simple folk here
went to Sydney
for a holiday
and when they returned
said: 
we have a harbour 
just as nice,
a bridge 
maybe not so grand,
but we think 
our Sky Tower
is bigger than yours…

…an antique space-age
milky blue pen
stained by its own ink,
its nighttime tip winking 
above the mist,
its solid stem
of white concrete
rooted in the dark black
volcanic soil
still celebrating
a noisy Friday, 
Saturday morning…

…Queen Street
meeting Karangahape Road
in a fusion,
confusion 
of culture,
mixing,
segregating
in a subtle life 
of tension,
producing art
in a greater space
than between 
two worlds…

…bubbling up like
a basalt mound
somewhere out there
in the making,
scenic shaping 
re-pricking 
the landscape
with exciting,
psychic contours
not yet exhibited
downtown….

3.	  On the Road to Te Kauwhata

Take the bus from the big A,
pass hobby farms 
with barns for houses
and horses
patted once a week…

Pass the mighty Waikato,
Whose waters are edged 
with western Willows,
dotted with forlorn clumps
of brown-yellow irises
in the wind weaving baskets
with their bent fronds,
toi-toi’s in stands			Toi-toi’s native flax with white bushy spears.
looking like Maori Pas,		Pa – a palisaded fort.
battered in the breeze
rustling with the sound
of cabbage trees…			Cabbage trees – a native tree with flax-like leaves.

By the wayside 
vegetables are sold,
sweet potatoes;
freshly cleaned kumara,
competing
with the white,
and for dessert,
must wait 
for those juicy grapes
not yet picked,
dangling on vines
not yet dancing
in local wines 
drunk across the nation….

Flowers and crosses
placed on the roadside
marking out graves not dug,
only noted in passing…
tracing out someone else’s
re-passing over….

4.	Wellington

The hills still seem sombre,
a darker green 
under an overcast sky,
their outline
almost unchanging…

It was as if we parted 
only yesterday 
when yesterday was 
twenty plus years ago…

Still that same smile,
same cynical laugh
yet none should be fooled…

Our hair may be grey
and soon turn white,
our backs bent, 
fingers crooked			Pronounced “crook’d”.
and skin like 
the lichened surface 
of a weather-beaten rock…

But still we will be able to laugh
and look time in the eye
and say it was as if we parted
only yesterday,
as if it was 
only yesterday…

Sombre hills seem
a darker green 
under an overcast sky,
their outline unchanging,
almost unchanging….

5.   A House on Every Hill

A chicken in every pot,
a house on every hill,
and every hillock too,
some spilling over the edges
of a crested paddock,
such democracy, 
that soon there will be none 
in the valley below…

…if we can all avoid 
one more recession..?

Still, there is a chicken 
in every pot,
even if the cooking is done
in dull steel, copper,
or gold…

…and garnished with herbs
fresh from a garden
delightful with flowers,
made private with lofty trees
that re-create an inner view
more wonderful than any
bald-headed eagle’s
windswept eyrie….

6.	Big Ben Is Still On Holiday

In the Octagon above
the hours are still struck,
and the quarters too,
as if in London,
the brand new clock tower
looking like the old
replacing that mean 
meat-safe replacement
once foistered upon us 
by a bankrupt council…

Ding dong ding dong, 
ding dong ding dong…

Bong… bong… bong…

…till the hour of twelve is reached,
listening to this music of the bells 
while I eat on a park bench below,
sampling apple & almond slices
for lunch, licking the moist icing 
from my fingers…

…taking a late morning tea,
this boy-at-heart still on holiday
in this town once called home,
now a tourist travelling 
through these sweet ripples in time….

	        ....=*^*=….

Today, motivated kids think
they have to pump iron
to be noticed…

Almost the same faces of friends 
when I went to school;
now their children
and grandchildren;
and I recognized no one…

Wonder how many
faithful citizens noticed me
in the distant crowds of passersby..?

Hopefully a few..?
Hopefully at least someone..?

Ding dong, ding dong…

The whiff of chocolate
from Cadbury’s factory
celebrates an old smell
from the past.
Even the plaintive echo of my feet
upon these well-known side streets
sounds familiar…

So strange this feeling to feel 
that this kid is still on holiday…

Must confess that my fancy
did look kindly 
upon that large house for sale
just above the town,
in a native garden,
with a high pointed tower
and harbour view;
although, thankfully,
am also pleased to be 
just passing through…
just passing through….

7.	Nostalgia

Meaningful old buildings
are now rarely pulled down 
to be replaced by the new,
only redesigned 
with a new purpose in view…

Ten year old Chris
learnt a new word today – ‘nostalgia’…

How many years will it take 
before he will feel what it means,
feel that difference
between today…
and yesteryear?

In three houses lives he,
one small old one 
soon to be pulled down,
one left to stand next-door
overlooked by the new one
still being built…

Soon he will feel the difference,
…feel the difference
in that loss of childhood,
in that ‘new’ sense of loss….

8.   Meeting an Unknown Relative

Mother took 
one secret 
to the grave, 
never past her lips,
that she had had
a second son,
the first one
adopted out, 
an irony then
that this one 
finally 
came home….

9.	  Catching the Last Train to Christchurch

The rich will fly 
and the poor 
will take the bus…

No place then for the train
stranded on terrain
left in financial 
no-man’s land…

A pity, really,
for the view along the harbour
is the equal of Sydney,
the tunnels - a child’s delight,
…as bush brushes past,
views are seen of a coast line
(awash with memory)
steeped in history
if you know where to look…

…but you can fall asleep
when you meet up 
with the flat, boring sweep 
of  the Canterbury Plains,
although the Alps 
on a fine Winter’s day
look like pearls and diamonds 
on a craggy necklace 
strung upon an ephemeral string…

In the melting of time 
even this line will go….

10.	  Christchurch

The Square in Christchurch
is a crucifix,
a solid cross with cathedral
planted on one arm,
raised like the trees
in square mounds of grass;
only a few workers 
now take the time 
to sit within….

…and here only the hours 
are sounded…

…while a tall black-hatted 
wizard preaches
to the tourists told to gather
when the clock bells 
will strike the hour 
he’ll re-appear…

…from a time barely recorded…

…as if buried deep
within the ground
beneath us…

…even if designed
in well-ordered gardens
that trick you into thinking
mother nature has
a solid shape…
a substance…
a sense of purpose…?

11.	Remember, Remember

Remember, remember,
eleventh of September,
a refrain not yet lost
on the travails of the traveller…

Only frisked 
with electronic hand,
bags searched by the eyes
of a blind x-ray machine,
everyone looked at 
suspiciously,
wished a pleasant journey,
still wondering 
if that foreigner
might only be a spy…

…just don’t touch the mail
if it comes from U.S.A…

…and please, please, today, 
don’t spill your talcum powder
on that fancy carpet 
in the airport lounge…!

12.   War on Poetic Terrorism

Hey, hey on this day
declare war on poets,
too much they have to answer for,
line em up, I hear you say,
and charge them by the meter,
for every foot that strays
across tortured media, 
leaving conventions shattered,
make them suffer, 
make them pay 
teach them how to play
with real words
in thoughtful prose
useful for workers 
who don’t have time for 
piss-elegant exclamations…

Hey, hey, there’s a war on its way,
against poetic terrorism, 
line em up, I hear you say,
and bomb the syntax out of them,
them be psychic twisters of the soul,
per-verse jugglers of words,
lock em up, give em lengthy sentences
and throw away the key,
in this campaign
it’s all full stops,
ignore their chanting
and their incantations,
forget they may appeal,
book em I say,
let them mumble their jingles
between the covers of a bed
in a tomb out of earshot,
stop them corrupting our youth,
time’s too precious 
to distill prose into lines of mere verse,
and as for rhyme
there’s reason to curse -
how I hate those that watch 
ads on television 
and who get sucked 
into singing them 
ev’ry bloody day..!

Hey, hey declare war on poets
too bad to deserve a say,
can show no simple cause,
no purpose to sway
an open mind, 
commit only atrocities,
murdering semantic sense,
condemned by their own pen
or lack of one,
processing words like fish
that slip through 
slippery fingers…

Hey, hey, there’s a war on its way,
against poetic terrorists,
know your foe,
make your stand, 
speak your piece…oh!
oops… better go..!!

	        ....=*^*=….

   Travelling home,
a state of the soul,
who knows where,
what roots have we
when like tumbleweed
we are blown 
to the four corners 
of the known world…

and back again…!?

	        ....=*^*=….

							Noël Tointon, Sydney, 1.11.01.